A Champion's Mind - Pete Sampras

aluminum bleachers on one side of the court. (In contrast, the “field” courts, where they usually put
obscure players, have very little seating room.) But it was first-come, first-served seating at 13, and
anyone who had a ticket or pass that got him onto the Wimbledon grounds could stake out a place there.
That meant the most passionate and enthusiastic fans would be there, but also the rowdiest, most partisan
—and most inebriated.
The matches scheduled before ours went long, so it was early evening by the time Foster and I took the
court. That gave fans plenty of time to lube their pipes with British lagers or the traditional fruity Pimm’s
cups. I was determined not to get into a war out there, because that’s just the kind of situation that could
spin out of control. I played nearly flawless tennis to win the first two sets, losing just three games.
But Foster, stoked out of his gourd by the occasion and the vocal fans, hung tough in the third set. We
stayed on serve through six, eight, ten games—by which time the crowd, sensing life in Foster, was really
getting into it. It was also getting toward twilight. All the elements that a favorite dreads were falling into
place: lousy conditions, unruly fans, a lead that could slip away.
Still, I figured that in the worst case I could just extend the match until it was called because of
darkness, and regroup to put the guy away the following day. But something inside me didn’t want to do
that. Something in me really wanted to bear down, dig deep, and put the guy out. This was part of wiping
away that bitter aftertaste that had lingered in my mouth after the last U.S. Open final. Foster was no
Edberg, and Court 16 was not Louis Armstrong Stadium, but in its own way this was a pivotal moment for
me.
I hung in there and got to the tiebreaker, where I took care of my serve and greased out a few returns to
stop Foster’s run. As soon as I won match point, I flung my arms in the air, turned to the crowd, and
yelled, “Take that, you motherf#$@&%rs!”
The photographers courtside heard exactly what I said and, in England, where the tabloid press is a
real force, that spelled trouble. The “Fleet Street boys” (and girls) who write the tabs are exceptionally
good at digging up information and blowing up routine incidents into front-page news. One of their
favorite tricks at Wimbledon is working hand-in-hand with the photographers, who are positioned much
closer to the action than the writers. In fact, they can hear and see just about everything a player says or
does during a match. And they definitely heard my taunt, even if most of the fans it was meant for did not.
When I went to my press conference, I felt relaxed and proud. The front row was filled with guys who
were very well dressed, for reporters. It’s one of those crazy ironies that the people who write the most
tacky and irresponsible stories in the British tabloids always dress impeccably, right down to wearing
pocket handkerchiefs or flowers pinned to their lapels. And so this one perfectly attired guy says, in his
perfect British accent, “Is it true that you called the British crowd a group of ‘motherf#$@&%rs’?”
I froze up. It hadn’t even occurred to me that this could be a big deal. I’ll never forget the discomfort I
felt at that moment—or that I wussed out. I flat-out denied having said what I did. It maybe wasn’t the
right thing to do; I felt funny about it. But the last thing I needed was to get in a big fight over a thoughtless
remark tossed out in the heat of combat. Not that my denial mattered—the incident was all over the papers
the next day anyway, and suddenly it seemed that all of England hated me. Put it down to a thoughtless
comment—and the power of the tabloids.
Of course, the toughest part of my 1993 Wimbledon still lay ahead of me: a quarterfinal pairing with the
defending champ and my emerging rival, Andre Agassi. We had a tense, high-quality struggle, with
multiple service breaks. The match went down to the wire, see-sawing right into and through most of the
fifth set. To my advantage, Andre looked like he was feeling the pressure of defending his first Grand
Slam title, and the surface was playing fast. I knew I could take care of my serve; it was just a matter of
finding a way to break. It was a very high quality match, but the air totally went out of it when I finally got
a break late in the fifth set and then served it out.
I played Boris Becker in the semifinals; he was already a multiple Wimbledon champion and an